


The Deal with de Vere

by Comatosejoy



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, I'll update tags and warnings as we go, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Comatosejoy/pseuds/Comatosejoy
Summary: Laurent is the star of the reality TV showThe Deal with de Vere, which used to star his entire family. Now only he and his uncle remain. As the tenth anniversary of the reality show's premiere approaches, the network chooses to do a crossover with Damen's show,Real Ios. The problem is, they very publicly hate one another, and not without good reason.
Relationships: Damen/Laurent (Captive Prince)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 34





	1. Chapter 1

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

The producer had filled an empty bottle of Dom Pérignon with water and stuck it in Laurent’s hand. The makeup artists had coated his cheeks in blush to make him look a little drunk, though he hadn’t touched alcohol since adolescence when he’d been really, really depressed about Auguste and just looking for a way to forget.

There was no music playing--it would get added in post. Bored, Laurent leaned against the wall of the club. Aimeric had tried to talk pleasantly to him before, which Laurent had shut down to the absolute delight of the producer. The meaner he was to everyone, the higher the ratings, the more money he allegedly made. Not that he saw a single red cent of it since his uncle was named as Laurent’s conservator. 

Laurent took a long swig of the water. The camera had gotten it. Surely that was enough film for the day. It was two in the afternoon and they’d been there since eight. The bars would open soon for real. 

It amazed Laurent that people believed a single second of reality television was real. Everyone in the background of the club was an extra who’d signed a release form. Aimeric being here was not an unhappy coincidence--the public had deemed Aimeric a sweet lamb and tuned in each week to see if he’d have a bit part in _The Deal with de Vere_ just so Laurent, a wolf, a monster, could tear him apart with his teeth. “ _Poor Aimeric_ ,” comments would read after this episode ran. Poor Aimeric, indeed, whose knife had gotten a little bent as he attempted to drive it into Laurent’s back.

“Okay, that’s a wrap,” the director called. Laurent pushed himself up off the wall. Next, he’d have to shoot some talking head about the “wild night” he’d just had. Every day of shooting was a 14-hour-long nightmare, and he did it six days a week.

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

“Keys, phone, wallet,” Damen muttered, patting down his pockets before walking into his living room. He swore he was forgetting something. “Are you rea--what are you watching, dude?”

Nikandros sat on Damen’s plush leather couch watching the television. There was some trashy, royalty-free pop beat playing as Laurent de Vere, in all his reptilian glory, chugged down a $300 bottle of champagne without even bothering to use a glass on Damen’s TV. 

“David Attenborough’s _Life on Earth_ ,” Nikandros deadpanned, cracking his neck. “I’m only watching this shit ironically, I swear.” 

Damen rolled his eyes. “Even ironically, I’m pretty sure it’ll melt your brain.” 

“Stupid can’t catch,” Nikandros said, flicking the television off. “And it’s good to keep tabs on our competition.” 

“Come on,” Damen said. Today, they were filming themselves parasailing in the Gulf of Atros. Tomorrow, they were hitting the bars in Ios to showcase the local nightlife. _Real Ios_ , Damen’s reality show, was half a show about the rich culture of Akielos meant to boost tourism and half _Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous_ , the rich and famous person in question being Damen. “We’re meeting the film crew in half an hour.”

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

At noon, the alarm on Laurent’s phone went off. He was in a meeting with one of the producers, who had been talking endlessly about the approaching tenth anniversary of _The Deal with de Vere_. They had to do something special, she was saying, and Laurent’s uncle was nodding. Laurent didn’t know why he was even included in this meeting, given that his opinion meant absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of things.

Switching off his alarm, he stretched. “Excuse me,” he said politely, turning on his front-facing camera and beginning a livestream. He was contractually obligated to do this twice a day. 

“I’m the first to admit that I have problem skin. It runs in the family. Have you seen my uncle’s wrinkles? Yikes. To prevent that unfortunate future, I’ve been drinking Charls-brand collagen water. The blackberry flavor is to die for!” 

Laurent held up a bottle of water before switching off the livestream. 

The producer was shuffling some of her papers. “Your uncle agrees that ever since the two networks merged and became Delpha, a crossover is long overdue between your show and _Real Ios_. It’s perfect for the ten-year special.” 

“I’m sorry?” Laurent said, sure he was hearing this wrong. “And how is that supposed to go, exactly? _Thanks for killing my brother, Damen, it’s a pleasure to meet you again_?” 

“That’s the plan, yes,” the producer said at the same time his uncle said, “He didn’t _kill_ your brother.” 

Laurent looked back and forth between the two. He didn’t have a choice. They weren’t asking for his opinion. “When?” he asked, defeated.

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

“I really don’t think Damen’s going to go for that,” Nikandros said, strolling into the kitchen with his phone pressed against his ear. Damen cocked his head, looking at Nik questioningly. Nikandros rolled his eyes in response, gesturing to show that whoever was on the phone would not stop talking.

“Okay, okay, I’ll ask him. But I think it’s a bad idea, for the record.” 

Nikandros ended the call and slid into the barstool next to Damen. 

“Ask me what?” Damen said, lifting a mug of coffee to his lips. 

“That was Delpha. They want to do some kind of special between our show and de Vere’s.” 

Surprised, Damen let out a laugh. “Do we even have the same demographics?” 

“They said they hoped both shows would widen their audience from this. They want to rent a house somewhere, have you and Laurent de Vere live in it for, like, a month and go at each other’s throats.” 

“You’re fucking with me,” Damen said, not entirely sure if he found this amusing or horrifying. “I am _not_ doing that.” 

“That’s what I told them,” Nikandros said, running his fingers through his hair. “They offered to donate half a million dollars to your mother’s charity as an incentive, though.” 

Well, that changed things. Leave it to the ghouls at their network to withhold money from charity just to get Damen and Laurent in the same room. “Fuck,” Damen said. He couldn’t believe he was actually considering it.

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

The flashbulb burst as Laurent glared into the camera. They’d dressed him in leather pants and a T-shirt that read “BITCH” in red letters across the front. They were really playing up the angle that Laurent was a villain. It all felt very contrived.

“Yes, really stare the camera down. That’s fantastic,” the photographer said, getting shots from a few different angles. Laurent didn’t have to work at looking unpleasant--he was genuinely not enjoying himself. How could he, with only four hours of sleep? 

He had met with a journalist the previous day so she could write an article to accompany this photoshoot in a magazine. Journalists seemed to always want to meet at restaurants, always described the food Laurent ordered: 

“Laurent de Vere maneuvers his chopsticks expertly as he snatches up a bite of unagi, letting my question hang in the air,”

or

“Laurent de Vere swirls his zucchini noodles thoughtfully with his fork before meeting me with his piercing, blue eyes.”

In every interview Laurent did--be it _Rolling Stone_ or _Men’s Fitness_ or fucking _Cosmopolitan_ \--the journalist always came at Laurent with an angle. The one from yesterday had wanted to show that Laurent de Vere was actually a regular, down-to-earth person. 

When Laurent had heard it, he had laughed out loud. Regular people weren’t on reality television shows for over half their life. Regular people worked forty-hour weeks and had control of their finances. Regular people weren’t held completely captive by their uncle, forced to perform, forced to monetize every moment of their lives. 

“I’m not a regular person,” Laurent had said, surprised that anyone would even suggest such a thing. Apparently, that wasn’t what the reporter had wanted to hear. She had narrowed her eyes and scribbled a couple of notes down. Laurent could guess how this article would turn out: 

“‘I’m not a regular person,’ Laurent de Vere said with his trademark bite--even at lunch in this quiet Arles cafe, a warm arugula salad in front of him, he is vicious.” 

He rolled his eyes thinking of it. The photographer in front of him whooped. “Do that again.”

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

“It’s a villa two hours west of here called Summer Palace,” Nikandros said, flipping through the contract in front of him for what had ceased to be just a special and was turning into a five-episode arc. The moment Damen had accepted the offer, the executives over at Delpha had gone completely crazy. You give them an inch and they take a mile. “They only offered to put me into two episodes.”

“Jesus fuck,” Damen said, scrubbing a hand over his face. Sure, the situation wasn’t ideal, but he had at least thought Nikandros was going to be there the entire time. “Is it too late to back out?” 

“Yes,” Nik said, flicking the television on. “Now, come and do your homework.” 

“Homework,” in this case, consisted of binge-watching the last seven years of _The Deal with de Vere_ , excluding the part where Auguste had died, because Damen knew about that all too well. It was strange to see panoramic shots of the house he used to know as well as his own. He watched Laurent, leaning against the counter of the kitchen, and thought about how, as teenagers, he and Auguste had played quarters on that counter, drinking beers they’d stolen from Aleron. He felt something cold and unpleasant slithering through his stomach. He really hadn’t expected the images of Auguste’s old house to affect him this way.

The show transitioned to a scene where Laurent and some redhead lounged on the patio by the pool. Damen remembered that pool. He and Auguste had thrown the wildest party there when they’d gotten into the same university. They’d found an apartment in Marlas to share and planned everything down to the most minute details: they both had busy schedules and didn’t mind if the place got messy or the chores weren’t done right away. They signed up for memberships at the same gym so they could be workout buddies. They were going to alternate cooking dinner on the rare occasions that they could have it together. Everything with Auguste had always been so easy. He missed the little things, like how they liked the same kinds of action movies and (importantly) did not like the same kinds of women, meaning they never had to arm wrestle over who got to approach which girl at parties. Auguste would take the brunette, Damen would get the blonde. Easy. 

That was before Aleron’s fatal car crash, two weeks before Damen and Auguste were set to move away. 

Things can happen so goddamn fast. 

Nikandros was looking at Damen expectedly and he realized that Nikandros had said something Damen had missed. “What?” 

“I said that that’s Ancel,” Nik said, pointing at the redhead on the screen. “He has a really bad indie-pop album out on Delpha’s record label.” 

Damen nodded absent-mindedly, still too lost in thought to really care about what was happening on the television. The de Vere residence had changed since Damen had last been there--the pool tiles were new and they’d replaced the outdoor furniture. He wondered if even a stitch of Auguste remained, or if they’d boxed up all his belongings the second he was in the ground and turned his bedroom into a home office or a pilates studio or a walk-in closet. 

And it was so strange to think of Laurent de Vere and his uncle living in that huge house alone. Before Hennike’s illness, the house had overflown with family and friends; Damen and Auguste and sometimes Nikandros when he had breaks from his military school would run around the house with whatever girls they were dating that week while a dozen adults drank wine on the patio, the younger kids playing croquet in the back yard or Mario Kart if the weather was bad. 

Now, the house looked like the ghost of itself. When was the last time someone had laughed on that patio Laurent and this Ancel person were lounging on? When was the last time there was any love in that house? 

Damen stood up. “I’m tapped out, man,” he said, trying, for Nik’s sake, to keep his voice level. 

But Nik saw and said, “Alright, we can pick it back up tomorrow or the next day.”


	2. Chapter 2

⧫ seven years earlier ⧫

Hennike had died in January and Aleron in August. Last summer, Auguste was eating shaved ice in the park with his whole family. This summer, he was making funeral arrangements and sniping at the insurance agent who thought Aleron’s car crash didn’t look entirely accidental.

He’d sent Laurent to an equestrian camp for the remainder of the summer just to get his little brother’s mind off of things and he’d deferred his college acceptance for a semester to make sure Laurent was completely taken care of and well-adjusted moving forward. 

At present, he hadn’t moved from his bed in the last forty-eight hours. He counted his blessings: Laurent wasn’t here to see him breaking down like this, for one thing. The EMTs had said that Aleron’s death had been instant, for another. They still had their uncle, for a third. The Delfeur network had let the remaining members of the family take six months off from filming to deal with their loss. Those were four things he could think of that were positives. And yet he couldn’t force himself to feel anything but this grief.

And it wasn’t just because he’d lost both his parents in less than a year. It was because _Laurent_ , who was just a kid, had lost his parents. He was so young to have experienced this much loss. Auguste wished he could take Laurent’s pain and bear it for him. 

Auguste heard a gentle knock from his doorway. “Hey, dude,” came Damen’s voice. “I used my spare key to let myself in.” 

Auguste grunted from his mattress, knowing full-well that Damen was too much of a caretaker to go away, even if Auguste asked. 

Damen flipped on the light, making Auguste shield his face. “Have you moved since I left you here on Wednesday?” 

“Yes,” Auguste answered. It was very transparently a lie. He and Damen had drunk a little too much earlier that week, and Damen had poured him into bed. On Thursday, Auguste had woken up with a mild hangover that was pretty much gone by midday but which Auguste had decided to use as an excuse to remain in bed for the foreseeable future. 

“You’re wearing the same clothes. The only thing that’s changed is that there’s more trash around you,” Damen said, picking up some of the candy bar wrappers that Auguste had tossed on the floor. “When was the last time you ate, like, a vegetable?” 

Auguste didn’t even know the last time he’d showered, let alone the last time he’d eaten something that didn’t contain high-fructose corn syrup. 

“It’s been a while,” he said, checking his phone. Six missed calls since yesterday. None of the numbers were from Laurent’s summer camp, so he didn’t bother listening to the messages or reading any of the dozen texts he’d gotten. 

“We’re ordering something for delivery and watching a movie tonight,” Damen said. He nudged Auguste’s leg with the tip of his toe. “And you’re taking a shower. I can deal with you, not your body odor.”

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

Being a producer on _The Deal with de Vere_ paid more than being a producer on _Real Ios_. That was what Jokaste had told everyone when she’d made the career change, though Damen suspected that it had more to do with their fling than the money. In a move that wounded both Damen’s heart and pride, she had failed to develop feelings for him the previous summer when they had had casual sex twice a day for about three weeks.

“I was hoping to take you out on a real date,” he’d said after a particularly intense session of lovemaking. Well, _he_ had been making love, _she_ had been fucking. 

“Oh, Christ, Damianos. I told you I didn’t want to date anyone. What happened to ‘no-strings-attached’?” 

“I got attached,” Damen said easily. 

“Well, I didn’t,” she said, rising from the bed and dressing herself. It had been the first time, romantically speaking, that Damen had been rejected. He had been surprised at how deeply it had stung, and, presently, was even more surprised that, months later, the sight of her entering the network studios still caused his mouth to press into a hard line and his blood pressure to spike.

And though Damen knew, intellectually, that Jokaste had worked on both shows and was the most logical choice for a coordinating producer, it didn’t mean he had to like it.

“Damianos, Nikandros. It’s lovely to see you both,” she said, sitting down in front of them. They had a meeting with her before they were to appear on a talk show in the studios to promote _Real Ios_. “How have you two been?” 

“Fine,” Nikandros said, his tone clear that he wasn’t interested in pleasantries. He must have sensed the tension in Damen’s posture. “Let’s get this over with.” 

The worst part of it sitting there, visibly stewing in front of her, was that he was fully aware that he was being childish. Jokaste had said, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t want a relationship. It hadn’t been personal. He knew this logically, and yet it still _felt_ personal. 

“I like it when a man can stick to business,” Jokaste answered. Okay, that was definitely personal. 

“I’m going to hair and makeup early,” Damen said, rising and exiting without so much as a nod to Jokaste. Nikandros was more than capable of taking care of this stupid meeting on his own.

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

Laurent found Ancel to be….a lot. The producers had set it up to seem like he and Ancel were old friends, but really, Ancel had put out a horrendous album with the network’s record company, and it was cheaper to have Ancel appear on a few episodes of _The Deal with de Vere_ than to book him on a press tour.

Ancel sang melancholy songs about his sugar daddies and perversely lustful songs about death. He’d cultivated a style somewhere between Marilyn Monroe and David Bowie and, by all appearances, had slit throats to get where he was. 

So, while Ancel was ostentatious in a way that made Laurent’s head ache, he also watched him very, very carefully. Aimeric had been ambitious, too, and Laurent never made the same mistake twice. 

They were filming in a club once again, and Ancel was dressed for it in sequin hotpants and heels, his red hair styled into glamour waves.

“We’re going to have Ancel get kicked out for being overserved,” the new producer said. She had some tragic name that Laurent couldn’t for the life of him remember, though he’d been told at least twice now. It was Jo-something. Jorgelina? Jocinta? Journey? Oh, Christ, was her name Journey? 

“I can do that,” Ancel, dead sober, said. He stripped off his shirt and, with surprising athleticism, hopped onto the bar. He snatched a bottle of Grey Goose from behind the counter and held it by the neck. “How’s this? Maybe I could pole dance using this support beam over here?” he asked. 

“Perfect,” the woman who couldn’t possibly be named Journey said. 

Laurent might have thought Ancel was a lot, but he was still disappointed to see that Ancel had only been signed onto two episodes of the crossover special. Being in some isolated countryside villa, forced to interact with the person responsible for Auguste’s death without Ancel or even Aimeric as a buffer was his definition of hell. 

And instead of watching episodes of _Real Ios_ as the producers had advised him to do in order to prepare, he sharpened his anger like a knife. He listened to the phone call Damen had placed--a matter of public record--all those years ago for an ambulance, too little too late. He watched shaky iPhone videos taken by bystanders on YouTube of Auguste collapsing outside the club where he’d spent his last night. Laurent had never been able to bring himself to watch them before. By the time his flight was set to leave for Aikelos, he’d seen Auguste’s overdose from five different angles.

And he was ready to grab the world by its edges and rip it in half, he was so furious. The network wanted Laurent with his claws out and his teeth bared and by God, they were going to get more than they asked for.

⧫ ⧫ ⧫

In Ios, before they sent him to the villa called “Summer Palace,” Laurent had an interview with some low-level journalist called Makon Something whose claim to fame was showcasing (but not busting, saying that he had to protect his sources) a revenge porn ring in Kesus.

Makon, facing the camera, spoke in Akielon: “ _I’m here with world famous Laurent de Vere, whose accolades include having a more-charming older brother who had a taste for opioids and being born into a famous family. More recently, he and other talentless socialites drain our society of its intelligence by being drunk and mean on television. Can you guys believe I actually went to J-school_?” The audience laughed. “ _That’s journalism school in layman's terms. This interview passes for journalism, believe it or not. Now, without further ado, let’s meet Laurent de Vere, star of the international hit TV show,_ The Deal with de Vere.” 

Laurent sat in an armchair behind Makon, and the journalist moved to sit in a matching armchair across from him. It was deeply clear that Makon did not know that Laurent was fluent in Akielon. Laurent was fuming. He didn’t care what this hack had to say about him, but talking about Auguste in such a way crossed a line. But, given that Laurent was always furious, no one seemed to notice as he ground his teeth beside Makon. 

In Laurent’s native language, Makon was initially polite. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today, Mr. de Vere.” 

He swallowed the more petulant responses that arose in his brain and said, “It’s my pleasure.” He would have a chance before this interview was over to utterly destroy Makon. Of that, he was certain. He could lull Makon into a false sense of comfort if he kept things momentarily pleasant--even if that pleasantness was transparently artificial. 

“Let’s start with what brings your lovely self to Ios,” Makon said pleasantly. He was a good-looking man, objectively. Not that that meant anything. If Laurent were some starry-eyed, young thing, new to celebrity and all the flattery that comes with it, he might have giggled. There was an alternate reality where he might have even swooned. 

Presently, Laurent dryly said, “I was propagandized by _Real Ios_.” 

Half the audience laughed uncomfortably and he saw Makon falter. Generally, interviews like this are scripted, or at least meticulously planned. It is not an accident when a talk show host asks a prompting question and the story a star supplies is of their hilarious hijinks at a wedding or their weird experience on set. However, this interview was last-minute, and Laurent had been told that Makon would lob some softballs and that he should answer in kind, only allowing for his trademark bitchiness when it would really shine. 

“Propagandized? That’s a five-dollar word,” Makon said. 

“Is it?” Laurent asked innocently. “I never went to J-school.” There it was. The unspoken _I know what you said_ , hung in the air. 

Makon’s face darkened. He looked villainous rather than handsome now. “That’s right, you only have a GED,” he said. There was no question attached. What sort of journalism school did he go to, anyway? This was no way to conduct an interview. 

“Believe it or not,” Laurent said, “it’s rather difficult to film a reality show full-time while attending high school.” 

“On the topic of education,” Makon said, “What would you say to the people who think that your show makes people stupid?” 

“I would foremost wonder why they went to the Delpha network for education,” Laurent said. “Do you read _Green Eggs and Ham_ and come away disappointed that it’s not Dante’s _Inferno_? Perhaps you’re just happy that they both rhyme.” 

“Dante’s _Inferno_ doesn’t rhyme,” Makon said. 

“Not in Akielon,” Laurent agreed, rolling his eyes. 

Makon looked at the camera and smiled brightly, clearly trying to save this doomed interview. Were it not being broadcasted live, there was no way it would make it to air. “They told me you were unpleasant. I didn’t realize this was a euphemism,” he said, still maintaining his phony smile. 

“And I was told you’d be handsome. Looks like we’ve both been lied to,” Laurent said, blasé as ever as he examined his nails. The audience laughed.

“We’ve cut the feed,” the director in the studio said. To Makon, “You looked like you were about to snap.” 

“I want him out of my studio,” Makon said, standing up and glaring at Laurent. 

Laurent stood, all graceful movements, stretched and yawned, as though this entire thing bored him. As he passed Makon, he arched one eyebrow, not cowed by anything. Not cruelty, not condescension, and certainly not an overgrown Akielon bully.


End file.
